


Big Eden

by SelahSeftali



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Amateur Chef Bucky, And Steve will be the death of him, Artist Steve, Big Eden AU, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Bucky is a precious cupcake, Bucky is an angry kitten who just wants cuddles, Everyone Is Gay, Explicit Sexual Content, Gay Sex, Like Whoa, M/M, Minor Angst, Panty Kink, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Protective Bucky Barnes, So many many kinks, Steve is a gay man, Steve is also a queer transfemme fairy, Steve will stab you with his heels and beat you with his designer handbag, The Howlies are gay fairy godmothers, The whole damn town ships it, Trans Character, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Veteran Bucky, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, cat dad bucky, shrinkyclinks, tattooed steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 06:28:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29485242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SelahSeftali/pseuds/SelahSeftali
Summary: After some major personal and professional set-backs, Brooklyn-based graphic novel artist, Steve Rogers, has finally got his life back on track. His little indie book label is a success, and he’s preparing his first art show at the Red Room Gallery. He’s thirty, flirty, and thriving.When his Aunt Peggy has a stroke, Steve drops everything to go to the little town of Big Eden, Montana to be by her side. He will nurse Peggy back to health and return to his regularly scheduled programming ASAP.He isn’t expecting shy veteran and general store owner Bucky Barnes to remind him of everything he might be missing.*After getting kicked out of the house and disowned by his family at seventeen, Bucky Barnes had joined the military while he tried to figure out what to do with his life. Years later, he was down one arm and a career and up some serious PTSD and brain trauma.Big Eden, Montana promises a fresh start. He spends his time repairing his cabin in the woods, rescuing stray kittens, and running the general store. Life is quiet.Until a tiny, fiery Steve Rogers storms into his life like an avenging angel. A beautiful, foul-mouthed, tattooed angel hellbent on making him suffer.
Relationships: Brunnhilde | Valkyrie/Carol Danvers, Clint Barton/Phil Coulson, Gamora/Wanda Maximoff, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson, Peggy Carter/Angie Martinelli
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	Big Eden

**Author's Note:**

> Join me on tumblr at selahseftali.tumblr.com for inspirations, photos, fan art, and updates about this story and others.

**  
Sunday, January 1, 2018, 9:02 AM**

**Park Slope Neighborhood, Brooklyn:**

Steve awoke with a pitiful groan, scrunching up his nose against the finger lightly stroking over the bridge, trying to coax him awake. There was the gentle, ringing scrape of metal on metal as someone pulled open the black out curtains, and the darkness behind his eyelids flooded red-orange with bright morning light.

Steve flopped around on his bed like a dying fish, frantic and graceless, squirming under the protective cover of his pillows and duvet. “Ugh. Go’ _way_ ,” he mumbled into his pillow. “‘m not home.” 

Even the smell of fresh Italian roast was not enough to entice him. Not after the week he had had. The world could catch fire around him, for all he cared. He would not be moved.

“Then whose bedroom are we standing in?” a gruff, masculine voice muttered, followed by a sputtering, choking cough. “‘S too _hot_ ,” the man whimpered.

A long-suffering sigh followed, “I told you, but do you ever listen?” said the second voice, feminine, smooth and low.

“Jesus Christ, Nat,” Steve rolled over with a heavy sigh. “Can’t ya see I’m tryin’ to wallow here? Take your weird, platonic marital spats somewhere else.”

“He lives,” the man intoned, plopping down heavily on the messy bed and half on top of Steve, who squawked and kicked at the other man until he stopped squishing him and moved over.

“Barely,” Steve grumbled, his lip poke audible hidden as it was beneath the heavy blankets.

“I’m surrounded by children,” Natasha surmised, and Steve did not have to look to know she was rolling her eyes. “Listen, Steve. We let you hermit yourself away since Christmas, and then you bailed on New Year’s….”

“We would've stormed in here last night,” interrupted Clint, scratching at his leg through a torn place in his jeans, “but we were already too drunk by the time you texted you weren't coming and Phil wouldn't let me because he knows me. So we passed out at Tony’s and took a car home.”

“Thank you, Clint. That was very unhelpful. Now enough is enough, Steve. You’re just being pathetic, at this point.”

“Cliiint,” Steve whined, upping the obnoxious level. “Nat’s picking on me.”

Clint snorted and patted the other man on the exposed top of his head, frowning at the greasy feel of the stringy, unwashed locks between his fingers. “Whatchu want me to do ‘bout it? I’m the trashcan fire in this family. Just accept that Nat will kick your ass into shape and get it over with. Trust me; it's easier.” He poked the padded bony hip nearest him and wiggled the coffee cup toward the smaller man, who slipped a skinny arm out from under his armor of linens and snatched up the offering, pulling it back under the covers.

“Ahh!” Steve shouted in shock when the covers were yanked from the bed and two strong hands grabbed his ankles and pulled. 

With quick reflexes, Clint rescued the coffee cup from Steve’s flailing hand before more than a few drops could spill, and Steve hit the bare floor with a heavy thump. The smaller man glared up at his flame-haired assailant dressed in her habitual all-black, large designer shades still perched atop her elfin nose like some dark hag or vampire witch or angel of death or some other unwelcome, cursed female figure but, knowing Natasha would only be flattered by such comparisons, he kept his uncharitable thoughts to himself. A spike-heeled suede bootie, which Steve instantly coveted, tapped its gold-capped, pointed toe two inches from the tip of his nose.

Natasha’s next words divulged her rapidly deteriorating mood. “You’re going to shower and brush your goddamn teeth because you _stink_. Then you’re going to put on some clean clothes that won’t embarrass me to be seen with you, and we’re going to brunch!”

Clint waved a granola bar he had pulled miraculously from somewhere and waved it in Natasha’s general direction, knowing from experience that a hangry Natasha was exponentially more potent, frightening, and evil. Natasha’s look said, _I know what you’re doing_ , but she took the olive branch for what it was.

“ _Ow_ ,” Clint quietly hissed, shaking his hand out. “Take my hand off, why don’t you.”

“Don’t wanna,” Steve groaned from the hard, cold floor. “Traitor,” he accused the other man, dirty blond hair in its usual disarray and a fresh butterfly bandage adorning his hairline, who merely smirked and shrugged unabashedly from his place sprawled across the bed.

“Steve,” Natasha said, deceptively sweet and patient. “What happened the last time Clint threw himself a pity party because he thought he had ruined his ‘last chance at love’ with Phil?”

“Alright, I’m going,” Steve hurried, crawling halfway across the room before he stumbled the rest of the way on two feet toward the nearest shower.

An hour later, over steaming platters of [shakshuka](https://www.eitanbernath.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/10/Shakshuka-4x5-LOWRES-1170x1463.jpg) with poached eggs nestled in a tomato pepper sauce and warm slices of [challah French toast](https://whatjewwannaeat.com/wp-content/uploads/2018/05/IMG_9974-600x400.jpg) with shredded halva and labneh cheese on the side, the three of them hashed out a plan for Steve’s new year and new life, now one lying, cheating, thieving ex-boyfriend lighter.

VAVAVAVAVAV

**Sunday, January 1, 2018, 10:19 AM**

**Wakanda-Stark Medical Center and Research Hospital, Manhattan:**

He woke up slowly, his senses returning gradually, in stages, like an ocean diver rising from the deep.

The first thing he heard was a steady beep...beep...beep.

Then the smells-- stale, sterile air and the scent of disinfectant.

_Beep...beep…beep…._

He felt heavier than he had ever felt, as if he was weighted with lead. There was a general, all-over pain that was difficult to pinpoint but seemed buffered by heavy medication, dimming his receptors, throwing up a padded wall between him and the rest of the world. When he reached out for his memories to make sense of these sightless observations, there was just an endless, blank blackness. An empty void of nothing. He could not remember. He knew that should be cause for panic but he could not muster the energy for such a frenetic response.

_Beep...beep...beep…._

Then there was a familiar voice, calling to him as if from under water but becoming clearer as he rose to the surface of consciousness. 

“...cky, are you awake? It’s going to be okay. You’re okay now.” 

_Becca_. His little sister. No, that couldn’t be right. She was back home in the States getting ready for nursing school. How could she be all the way out here? It didn’t make sense. 

_Beep beep beep…._

Bucky grabbed for the fleeting images that seemed to dissipate like wisps of smoke just as he reached out to touch them and reveal their shapes and colors to him. What he could recall were uninvited flashes of pain and terror. Gunfire and smoke. Screams of confusion and agony. The smell of burning flesh. 

Unless….

_Beepbeepbeepbeepbeep…._

Hands gentled him, pressing against his chest and shoulder. 

“Welcome back, Sergeant Barnes.”

He tried to swallow the panic through a raw, desert-dry throat but he choked on his own air, could feel the sweat prickle across his skin, his heart trying to beat its way out of his chest. He tried to fight off the hands holding him down. One wrist was grabbed and forced down against the bed, tangled with tubes and wires. 

The other. The other…. He lifted his hand to his face, trying to brush his overgrown hair from his eyes that was blocking his view. When had his hair gotten so long? How long had he been out? Oh, Christ. But it was as if he could feel his arm but could not control it. 

When he looked down toward his left arm, he found...nothing. Just empty space and the flattened sleeve of a hospital gown where his left arm used to be.

Suddenly, the darkness began to creep back up around his vision, swallowing his view. The rage and pain and panic that seemed to well up and overwhelm him, began to dissipate just as quickly as it had formed. He tried to hold onto it, to keep the momentum, to keep fighting, but it was a losing battle. He was slipping, falling. And as unconsciousness claimed him once more, all he could manage to think was, _Fuck. Oh, fuck. What do I do now?_

VAVAVAVAVAV

**Thursday, January 18, 2018, 10:33 AM**

**SHIELD Studios, Park Slope Neighborhood, Brooklyn:**

Just on the other side of the East River, like some gentrified shadow over their minuscule piece of the literary world, were the monoliths, the handful of conglomerates that dominated the publishing world.

But here, a bike ride away from Aunt Peggy’s old brownstone, which Steve now called home, in a crowded rectangular room in a repurposed American Can factory, which rubbed up against the network of toxic sludge known as the Gowanus Canal, Steve had already sat by the light of a single lamp and his laptop screen, windows still dark outside, and finished compiling a portfolio for an artist showcase hosted by The Brooklyn Art Initiative, contacted a professional acquaintance at _The New York Times_ about their award-winning and shortlisted entries from the last quarter, filled an order for an independent bookseller on the other side of Brooklyn, and put together a list of titles for his contacts at the English department at NYU for their Expressive Studies course, which focused exclusively on the unique literary value of graphic novels. If Steve actually let himself marinate in his emotions for a moment, he probably would have freaked out that something created by him, an art school dropout, could one day be taught at one of the most prestigious universities in the country. 

Steve had also made adjustments to the calendar— outlining the talking points for tomorrow’s staff meeting to discuss current and imminent releases as well as setting the date and rough itinerary for the next editorial meeting to talk over recent submissions and map out the publishing calendar, which would be refined with the other editors and production manager. He had also drafted up a rough task list for the monthly marketing meeting to plot publicity campaigns; although, they also had a tiny staff dedicated to marketing and publicity. Most hands were in multiple pots most days. That was the way it had to be, all hands on deck and each person working daily, heads down and on a shared mission toward keeping their small business open and running and striving to reach the widest possible audience. And they had found, through a combination of hard work, trial and error, and sheer good fortune, that their little business model somehow worked. 

Their staff was small but dedicated and slowly but surely growing, each of them committed to a shared mission to produce and publish works that delivered on the founding promise of what they called the Holy Trinity: irreverence, an attraction to dark themes, and a passion for social justice. It was this shared passion and dedication and low turnover that allowed them to put out a whopping forty titles per year, produced both in house as well as curated quality works from outside artists and writers under the SHIELD brand.

They looked for artists and writers who were either ignored by the mainstream or had no interest in working within the ever-consolidating ranks of the major corporate publishers, who were less concerned with vision and artistry and wholly consumed by the bottom line. Their cash advances were often small, $5,000 on average, but their business model in the publishing world was wholly unique, sharing 50% of their profits with their writers. It guaranteed them exceptional loyalty and exclusive rights to the future works of those burgeoning writers who, once more established, may be otherwise seduced and poached by the so-called Big Five publishing dynasties.

Not bad for a tiny, independent press with a small staff. And now, after all of that, after a decade of backbreaking, blood-letting work, Steve’s single worst mistake could destroy it all. He could not let that happen.

Steve straightened up from his lean against his drawing table with a quiet groan, glancing up at the storyboard displayed on the large graphic tablet perched above the table. Even with his table adjusted to a precise 45 degree angle and his state of the art ergonomic chair, the curve in his spine still protested staying in the same position for hours on end. He had been putting in maximum overtime at the studio and skimping on the yoga classes with Natasha. Maybe he would actually let her bully him into the next class. He could not bear another summer like the one in 2013 when the only time he could draw was with his tablet rigged and suspended over his chest and his arms propped up by pillows because he had been too weak to hold them up on his own. 

He was a full-fledged adult now, or so he liked to tell himself, no longer languishing in some amorphous post-grad limbo and living off of ramen and cheap coffee. He had learned to take better care of himself, to know his limits, to set alarms for his medications, to eat a variety of fruits and vegetables and drink more water and stop skipping meals. He had decent health insurance, dammit. Some days, he could almost convince himself he had his shit together. Okay, so he knew he was backsliding, but these were desperate times.

Through the large window directly in front of his crowded workspace, he noticed the sun was much higher than he expected, bright and watery through a hazy winter sky. The last time he had lifted his head, the morning light had been merely a suggestion, a dim, ruddy glow just edging out the darkness among the structures of glass, concrete, and stone. To his left, further evidence of his prolific hours— an empty electric kettle and an assortment of empty mugs were crammed among cups of pencils and pens atop his paint cabinet. To his right, another drawing table with four pages freshly inked and drying and ready to be scanned, cleaned up, and sent to his colorist.

For a moment, he allowed himself to get lost in a daze at the sights of life outside his insular, little world until a knock jerked him from his reverie.

Gamora leaned her hip against his makeshift doorway, smirk in place, arms crossed over her chest, signature lace-up boots crossed at the ankle. Her magenta ombré hair was pulled back from her face in a messy ponytail and her long-sleeve button down was tied around her waist, signaling she had reached full stride and was in Mission Mode. 

“I’ve got the interns working to expand the mailing list of reviewers, librarians, and booksellers and start on filling next week’s orders. I’m letting you know now, so that you can actually try to leave some work for them to do. Also, Clint wanted me to remind you that you promised him lunch today.”

Steve rolled his eyes without turning around to his face his partner. “He could have texted me himself.”

“He did.”

“Oh.” Steve looked toward the dormant phone atop his desk, noticing the large clock displayed on his laptop read half past ten. “It’s still early,” he shrugged.

But knowing his foster brother slash roommate, Steve knew Clint had most likely been fantasizing about food all morning. As low maintenance and no fuss as Clint appeared to be, there was the touch of the hedonist about him, particularly when it came to food and coffee. 

“Maybe for the rest of us, but if I know you, and I do, you’ve already put in a day’s work before the rest of us even got here.” 

The censure that he was working too hard went blessedly unspoken. It was an old argument that went perpetually unresolved, fueled by Steve’s guilt and barely tempered by Gamora’s mother-henning.

“We have a lot of catching up to do, Mora. You know that,” Steve murmured, eyes resolutely focused on his tablet. “And since I got us into this mess, it’s my responsibility to….”

“ _Ugh_ ,” Gamora rolled her eyes, groaning long and loud and eclipsing the rest of Steve’s response. “Not this again. Unless your name is Brock Twatwaffle Rumlow, you’re not responsible for jack shit. You can smell the stench of your guilt and self-persecution from down the block. Wanda says she’s going to make you an honorary Jew if this goes on much longer. But fine. Since you feel personally indebted to me, somehow, regardless of all sense and reason, I’m cashing in a favor.” She was not above using someone’s guilt against them, particularly if it was for their own good.

Steve groaned, falling forward to rest his forehead against the table. 

“Wanda needs a model for some sort of fitting shoot or whatever she’s having today at our place. And I love that woman, goddess help me, I do, but I just _can’t_ , Steve. There are so many dresses, and there’s a reason I shop online. Wanda calls my fashion sense diesel dyke chic. I don’t even know what that means except that I like to wear jeans and be comfortable, but anyway, at least we agree that your legs are better than mine, so, _oh_ , speaking of the devil….”

The woman in question appeared as if summoned, practically bouncing into the room with a swirl of auburn waves, and kissed her girlfriend’s cheek, wide, sweet grin in place and eyes full of hope. “Well? Did he say yes?”

Steve sighed loudly, knowing he was already fucked. Wanda was like a little sister he was helpless to say no to, and Gamora, the sly witch, knew it, if her smug, Cheshire grin was anything to go by.

“If you leave now, you can still make it to lunch with Clint,” Gamora practically sang as she waltzed down the hall.

“Does no one understand that I have a business to run?”

“Actually, _I_ have a business to run. That’s why my door says COO!” Gamora hollered. 

“I’m the damn co-founder and CEO,” Steve mumbled to himself even as he powered down his electronics and gathered up his bags.

“Po-tay-to po-tah-to, Steebie!” 

VAVAVAVAVAV

**Thursday, January 18, 2017, 11:18 AM**

**Maria Collins Stark Rehabilitation Center, Manhattan:**

Bucky sat in the lone chair in his room, looking out at the Manhattan skyline, wearing his new uniform— dark sweats, t-shirt, and hoodie, anything that was soft and stretchy and easy to pull on and off now that he was down an arm and quite a bit of mobility. A single ear bud in his ear played Becca’s newest playlist. It was something they used to do right after Bucky had left home and Becca had been in middle school, exchanging playlists and listening for secret messages, a way to stay connected even though they were sometimes continents apart. Becca had returned to school the weekend before and promised to visit during family visiting hours on Saturdays before work. 

It was an ordinary Thursday, or what had become an ordinary Thursday for him at the Maria Collins Stark Rehabilitation Center. He tracked the days for the sake of it and not due to any pressing appointment or set schedule apart from meals times and appointments with his physical therapist on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays and his therapy group on Tuesday afternoons. And even then, someone else was in charge of all of that. If he forgot about an appointment, there was always someone to remind him.

It was too-often his physical therapist, Thor. At least that’s what everyone called him. Bucky assumed it was a nickname. And for the tall, long-haired blonde with massive muscles and an even bigger voice, it suited him. He was aggressively cheerful and disgustingly good-natured even while working Bucky until he was shaking and sweating from fatigue and pain. Bucky kind of hated him a little. 

For now, he sat in his chair and listened to Becca’s playlist without really listening. He was supposed to be figuring out what came next, or so his therapist had said. Funnily enough, that was what he had joined the military for. When his parents kicked him out of the house at seventeen, he had kicked around on friends’ couches for a few months until he could graduate early. He had been young, cynical, and jaded and more than a little lost. Joining up was a way for him to do something with his life, learn a few skills and earn a little money while having three meals a day and a place to sleep while still being technically homeless. And if he ever decided to actually go to college, now he had a way to pay for it. All he had to do was not get shot or blown up or killed. (He had failed miserably on two accounts.)

Turns out, he had been really good at it, the soldiering thing. A strict household without much parental coddling and harsh punishments for disobedience had prepared him well. He could take orders and he was a pretty good shot. More than good, actually. He had made a career out of it. It had felt good to be needed, to have a purpose. Now, he had neither. 

If possible, he was even more jaded than before. He had spent a decade learning to excel at something without ever stopping to ask himself if it was what he wanted. He had kept himself almost punishingly busy, hyper focused on missions and assignments and duties, occupied with training during his downtime, and spent free weekends bar (and bed) hopping. And somehow, it was supposed to be enough to fill up a whole life. Despite Bucky’s best efforts, the apple had not fallen far from the tree, after all, and he had sometimes wondered if he was doomed to end up like his old man, anyway— just another drunken workaholic hellbent on becoming a miserable, lonely old man. 

He had never liked the quiet, lonely hours when all of the questions and regrets and anxieties began buzzing loudly in the back of his head, moaning and wailing like ghosts that refused to be ignored. Now, his life seemed like nothing but lonely and quiet. And the more questions that haunted him, the more he could not help but feel as if he had been wasting his life. And for what? How much time had he spent fulfilling the vision of men who were no more good or innocent or incorruptible than the people he was supposed to hate? He was a weapon of destruction who had been put out to pasture now that he was no longer useful. What did he have to show for his sacrifice except a body littered with scars and chronic pain and a brain fucked up by PTSD and a traumatic brain injury and a shoebox full of pictures of men and women who would never come home?

A quiet knock sounded on his open door, and Bucky turned his head slowly, expression placid.

An older woman, probably close to his mom’s age, stepped into his room. Her clothing seemed simple and unadorned— gray slacks and navy sweater with small gold earrings and a thin gold watch. Real gold. Clothing well-tailored with textures that held a subtle richness that spoke of money. Hair conservatively styled but expensively cut.

“Hello, James. My name is Peggy Carter,” the woman said with an English accent that matched— upper middle class, private school education. Bucky was trained to read people quickly. At least some things came in handy in everyday life apart from knowing how to shoot guns and kill people.

Bucky blinked, letting the silence linger and not caring if it made anyone uncomfortable or not. He was kind of an asshole but he had to get his kicks somewhere. 

But the woman was not discouraged. If anything, she seemed to enjoy the challenge, and the crow’s feet that punctuated her warm brown eyes seemed to deepen in amusement as she moved deeper into the room.

She made herself comfortable perched at the edge of the bed and set a small canvas tote bag on the side table. She also held a small jar of what looked like wildflowers with a ribbon tied around it.

“These rooms always seem so gloomy no matter how cheerful they attempt to make them, don’t they? I brought some books and things I hope might entertain you. I know the hours here can be unwelcomely long, especially at night. As well as some candy bars Becca says are your favorite. I know she’s been helping you hide them from your nutritionist.”

She knew a lot of things, apparently. Bucky resolutely did not look toward the bag. She wanted something. He could wait her out.

She folded her hands in her lap, letting her gaze wander toward the single, large window. What was she waiting for?

The track playing in Bucky’s ear switched to something loud and incongruous with the quiet room, and his thumb moved surreptitiously to stop the song. 

Peggy was still looking out the window when she finally spoke again. 

“As you know, war is a lucrative business, and our soldiers are treated as disposable, collateral damage. The United States government spends trillions on weapons and defense, and yet their veterans programs are woefully underfunded. So then who is responsible for the broken men and women who come home, who still have lives to live and are struggling to pick up the pieces and adjust to day to day civilian life after they’ve been chewed up and spit out by the U.S. industrial military complex?”

_So just a little light reading with breakfast then?_ Bucky almost snorted to himself. This one certainly didn’t beat around the bush. Bucky’s brow twitched in interest, though he remained silent. 

“Maria Stark was an old friend. She opened this center with a vision of helping those with traumatic injuries. That’s what this program is for, James. It’s here to help people just like you fill in the gaps, however long you need them. If you say no, that’s your rightful choice. You can continue your treatment program as is and move on with your life. You’ve had too many choices taken from you already; I won’t be the cause of another one.”

“I...I don’t deserve any of this,” Bucky spoke quietly, reticently into his lap, knuckles whitening around the phone in his hand. “Not when….”

Not when there were others, better men and women who did not come home, people who left behind husbands and wives and partners, children, parents. Why did he deserve to live when they did not? There was no higher purpose, no master plan. He had no home, no family waiting for him to come back. Not even a fucking pet fish or ficus depending on him for survival. 

“I know you won’t do it for yourself, James. So I’m asking you to do it for others but I won’t sugar coat it for you. It’s an experimental program, and that means it comes with not insubstantial risks. Of rejection, nerve damage, chronic pain. There would be several surgeries and a long recovery. At the very least, you would be furthering research that would help others like you, fellow soldiers. But there are others who benefit from this program— children who have been in accidents, undergone amputations for cancer, people born with congenital conditions. If the program is successful, you’ll be able start the next phase of your life with potentially more opportunities than you have now. You could potentially return to active duty.”

“No.” Bucky’s eyes snapped up, revealing his own surprise at the strength and vehemence in his voice. 

He had not fully realized, had not known for certain until just then that he never wanted to go back to that old life again. He had been mourning a lost life, his own, and for what? What exactly was there to be so precious and nostalgic about? 

“No strings attached,” Peggy continued gently as if he had never spoken. “Just the occasional check up and upgrade, as needed.”

Bucky finally peeked into the top of the canvas bag and frowned at the comic books he could see in there. Who did she think he was, a damn kid? 

Peggy’s lips twitched in a small, indulgent smile as she rose quietly and gracefully from her seat, brushing a gentle hand across Bucky’s shoulder as she passed him on the way to the door. 

“At least think about it.”

VAVAVAVAVAV

**Thursday, January 18, 2019, 11:28 AM**

**Wanda and Gamora’s Studio Apartment, Red Hook Neighborhood, Brooklyn:**

Wanda and Gamora lived in a rent-stabilized apartment in a converted pre-war building in Red Hook. It was a community on the margins, surrounded by water and isolated by public transit with a strong sense of identity and community. Although still somewhat raw and growing, in the last decade or so, it had grown from its reputation as America’s crack capital and one of the worst neighborhoods in the country to become an artist’s paradise with its converted warehouse apartments of exposed brick, wood floors, high industrial ceilings, and plentiful natural light. The apartment was long and narrow, but clever storage and furniture placement maximized every ounce of space. The high ceilings and natural light gave it a sense of spaciousness it would otherwise lack. 

Most importantly, in little touches everywhere, from the antique velvet couches and the almost perversely incongruous chandelier to the mid-century style console record player and the overgrown houseplants as well as scattered among the framed artwork extending nearly from floor to ceiling, was the ghost of Wendeline Maximoff.

“I always forget how incredible this place is,” Steve said with awe as Wanda ushered him through the door.

“It hasn’t changed much since Grandma Wendie was alive,” said Wanda, gesturing to the large painted portrait hanging on the wall above the credenza in the long, narrow entryway like some sort of shrine to the dead woman’s life.

Steve placed his helmet atop the credenza and tilted his head up at the portrait. “She reminds me of a Jewish [Tallulah Bankhead](https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tallulah_Bankhead).”

Wanda threw her head back and laughed, leaning heavily into the coat stand and almost knocking it over. “Like Tallulah, my grandmother also loved baseball and being naked at private parties.” The woman had been larger than life, that was for certain.

“She had an incredible life,” agreed Steve as he made himself at home, depositing his shoulder bag, jacket, and shoes by the door. “I can’t even imagine what it would have been like to be raised by her instead of in a foster home.”

Grandma Wendie had come to New York as a fresh-faced twenty year old evading Nazis persecution and eventually earned quite a bit of notoriety in her own right as part of the Soho Renaissance during the 1960s and 70s. After Wanda and her brother, Pietro’s parents’ death in a car accident, Wendaline became their guardian, and the young siblings came to enjoy a certain unconventional lifestyle from an early age. 

“I suppose not many high schoolers could boast about getting drunk for the first time at Madonna’s Upper West Side co-op,” Wanda agreed as she unlaced her boots and put them next to Steve’s on the shoe rack.

Or that their living room once hosted late night get togethers— whose unofficial guest lists boasted names like [Serrano](https://www.amrubin.it/the-visceral-visions-of-andres-serrano/), [Mapplethorpe](https://scene360.com/art/91031/robert-mapplethorpe/), and [Finely](https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1991-02-15-ca-1187-story.html%3f_amp=true)— which would serve as a birthplace for an artistic revolution that would set the art world on fire and spark national outrage that would extend from local politics all the way to the Supreme Court and change the American art world forever.

“Before Grandma Wendie died and Pietro and I took over the lease, we promised her that this place would always be a home to outsiders and a birthplace for creativity. And so far, we’ve kept that promise,” said Wanda, gesturing to the overall space.

“So now you’re invoking dead grandmothers to get me to do this? Do you know no shame!”

When Steve followed Wanda into the rest of the apartment, he found the usual collection of fold out tables pushed into a far corner in an L-shape, table tops and the floor space around it littered with scraps of fabric and crowded on both sides with clothing racks exploding with colorful garments in various stages of completion.

The living room furniture had been pushed back to allow for the current set up of tripods mounted with ring lights, soft boxes, and reflectors. One of Wanda’s tables had been commandeered for a computer setup, and underneath, a large rolling case was opened to reveal half a dozen camera lenses and a multitude of other equipment and photography accoutrement that Steve could not have identified even if his very life had depended on it.

Wanda had supposedly chosen a two hour window when the ambient natural light was “just so” inside the apartment. 

The wearable and accessible though highly-structured pieces of her collection complimented the industrial-inspired setting and the urban architecture visible through the windows in the background.

“Okay, we have about two hours before my boss notices that I’ve borrowed $125k worth of equipment for this shoot. I owe Andre an unspeakable amount of favors for covering for me this morning.”

“Hey, Pietro,” Steve waved absently at his friend’s infrequently-seen twin, speaking rapidly. “I saw your work in _Aperture_ for their Art and Activism issue. I was so impressed. You know Natasha is chomping at the bit to get to do your next show, right? Your vision is wasted on fashion photography. No offense, Wanda.”

Wanda laughed. “Believe me, I know my brother is destined for something greater than taking pictures of dresses. I’m just thankful I can use our shared womb experience to guilt him into free labor.”

“It pays the bills, so that I can feed my conscience in other more satisfying ways,” said Pietro, fiddling with a speedlight. 

“I would like to mention that I am _not_ working for free,” Steve piped up.

“Don’t worry, babe. I have plenty of that Russian tea you like, and you know I always save something just for you. Now get your skinny little ass in these,” ordered Wanda, as she shoved a pile of garment bags in Steve’s arms.

“I’ll have you know that my ass is the only unskinny thing about me!” Steve yelled as he trotted behind the ornate carved room divider that marked off the bedroom space.

“I thought that was your lips,” Pietro murmured under his breath. “Ow!” He squealed when his twin reached out and twisted a nipple. “I swear to the gods, Wanda, if you make me drop this camera, you’re going to be out there on the streets with me selling our asses to pay for the replacement.”

“How many times do I have to tell you to stop flirting with my models, who are also my friends, by the way, and therefore, _off limits_ ,” Wanda hissed. Pietro just grinned and shrugged unabashedly, and Wanda rolled her eyes. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Just an equal opportunity drinker, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, we know you’re a pansexual slut.”

Steve laid out the garment bags on the bed, noticing the numbered tags looped around the tops of the hangers, and grabbed the first one with a resigned sigh that belied his burgeoning excitement. He was a long-devoted fan of her unisex, gender-bending vision, which worked out for Steve because Wanda had adopted him post-break up like a beloved pet she liked to dress up. After a series of successful pop ups, her burgeoning fashion line, Scarlet Witch, was due to open its first standing location, and every late night get together for dinner or drinks usually ended with Steve at Wanda’s, forced to model whatever sample she was working on while she snapped photos and directions. 

Steve had always been weird about having his picture taken, a lifetime of body image and health issues no small factor. An abusive ex who ridiculed his less than manly build and his penchant for soft fabrics and bright colors and “girly” patterns had not helped matters. 

At times, it had seemed as if Brock’s sole mission in life had been to make Steve feel inferior at every opportunity. He was too skinny, too sick, too feminine, too opinionated, too strong willed, too bossy, too devoted to his work over his relationships. Always _too_ something yet somehow never enough. The more Steve reluctantly recalled his latest heartbreak, the more he wondered how he could have wasted two years on that asshole.

But even after all of that, it had been surprisingly easy to give in to Wanda’s cajoling, peppered with effusive compliments and praise, as it was.

_Here, take this. I made a bet with Mora that this jacket is the exact color of your eyes and I need you to prove me right, m’kay? There’s a good boy._

_Oh, my god, Steve, your legs will look killer in these shorts! Just try them on. Please please please?_

_Holy shit, I knew it! Your ass is banging in those jeans. If I weren’t a committed, gay woman, Steve, you’d be in big trouble._

_Steve, can you imagine? Your bone structure and this top? I can’t! Put this on, and tell me I’m wrong. I dare you._

_Steve, I have a new collection in mind and I need you to be my muse. Artist to artist. That’s sacred, Steve. Do you really want to deny my art to the world?_

Okay, so there may have been some emotional manipulation and guilt tripping involved, but her heart was in the right place. And Steve was like an open wound more often than not these days. It did not take a detective to see that the man was in desperate need of a little attention and human kindness before he bloomed like an eager crocus blossom pushing through the frosty ground at the first breath of spring. 

While the twins continued bickering benignly, Steve was having a low-key life-altering _moment_.

“Wow,” said Steve as he looked at himself in the floor length mirror leaning against the wall across from the unmade bed. The first outfit consisted of expertly tailored leather shorts. _Tiny_ shorts, he might add, juxtaposed with a floral-printed gossamer fabric that was practically sheer it was so fine. It was cut high, resting above even the high waist band of the shorts so that barely a sliver of skin peeked out in the front while the fabric was cut long and voluminous in the back and tailored just enough to still provide a flattering suggestion of shape and curve to the wearer. 

Wanda’s collection was all about a balance of contrasts, she had explained to Steve. There was the almost starch, brutal cut of structured, heavy fabrics in leather and tweed and linen balanced with soft, flowing florals and even the occasional delicate, pale knits. There was the masculine juxtaposed with the feminine. The sweetly vulnerable married to nearly unapproachably confident. An intimidating strength and sexual confidence tempered with a sugar-sweet innocence.

_“That’s why you’re perfect for this, Steve!”_ _Wanda had effused. “I’ve always seen you as this intriguing, almost precarious balance of warring contrasts— the masculine and the feminine, the sexual and the innocent, the arrogant and the humble. You’re practically my muse for this collection, you know.”_

_“Jeez, Wanda. Don’t you think you’re layin’ it on kinda thick? I already agreed to do this. You don’t have to keep convincing me,”_ _Steve had muttered, blinking fast and shyly averting his gaze._

_“I’m serious, Steve. So many of these pieces I designed specifically with the thought that you would wear them.”_

_Steve had felt his face warm with a deep, embarrassed blush. “I don’t know what to say to all of that. I think you’re making me sound way more awesome and cool and confident than I actually am.”_

_“That’s because you are that cool, Steve. The rest of the world just hasn’t caught up yet. But I feel that the current social zeitgeist is completely on trend with your gender fucking ways. And I, for one, am ready to cash in on that,” Wanda had grinned massively._

If only he could have as much faith in himself as Wanda seemed to have in him, thought Steve. He would be unstoppable.

“Uh, Wanda?” Steve’s voice sounded small and unsure behind the divider.

“Yeah, babe?”

“Is there a _rest_ of this outfit somewhere?”

“Nope. That’s it.”

“And you wanted me to wear the shoes with it?”

Wanda smirked. “Yep.” There was a reason she had saved this one for last. 

Steve had thought they had gone for bold and daring when he had put on the deep-plunging, completely sheer, floor-length black gown with only the black panties underneath to preserve his modesty. 

“You can see my nipples,” Steve had mumbled, looking at some of the shots on Pietro’s laptop.

“Hush. You look amazing. Oh, Pietro, I _love_ that one.”

Steve had not even remembered what Wanda had said to get him to smirk like that at just the right moment, in a look that signaled pure confidence and power and a touch of flirty arrogance just as he pivoted in a turn so that the hem flared up and exposed one long, bare leg. And it did not hurt that the angle of the shot combined with the high waist and long skirt made his diminutive stature seem six feet tall.

A heavy sigh preceded the tell-tale click of spiked heels on the hardwood. “Alright, but don’t you _dare_ laugh.”

When Steve appeared shyly from behind the divider, Wanda’s gasp filled up the silent space. 

Behind her, Pietro cursed, fumbling the lense he was switching out on the camera. “ _Jesus_. I mean, Christ. I mean, um, you look good, uh, Steve.”

Steve did not know what the hell he was supposed to be wearing or where one would even wear the outfit outside of one’s own bedroom. 

The black, structured top was cut so high, it looked more like a bra than a shirt with straps that looped around his neck, halter-style. The [high-waisted shorts](https://i.pinimg.com/236x/6b/f6/7b/6bf67b52ab226a8e21d83965e9f80ad2--men-in-heels-high-heels.jpg) covered his navel but were cut so high in the back, that the bottom of his ass cheeks were practically showing. With the smokey eye makeup, artfully mussed hair, and exceedingly strappy heels, Steve kind of felt as if he was auditioning to perform his first public strip tease. Well, except he probably needed more clothes to start with than what he was currently wearing.

“Please don’t take this the wrong way when I say that you look fucking stunning, Steve. And as a card-carrying lesbian, you are making me feel Le Confused, in the best possible way.”

Steve laughed then, exhaling some of his nerves. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

VAVAVAVAVAV

“I almost forgot,” said Steve, newly dressed in some borrowed thigh-high boots and the first outfit he had tried on, which was Wanda’s payment for his help. He pulled a flash drive from his bag and handed it over. “I finished the new logos.”

Wanda bounced in place and clapped her hands with glee before gesturing to Steve with grabby hands. Pietro plugged the drive into his laptop and opened the single file.

“As we agreed, I did one graphic and one font.” 

The graphic logo looked like a stylized, crimson W drawn to resemble a mask or headdress befitting a SHIELD heroine. The second logo featured the muted red W overlaid with a clean yet feminine scrawl that read Scarlet. 

Wanda squealed with unconcealed delight, pressing cool hands to warm cheeks. “It’s _perfect_ , Steve, I mean it. You were right. I think these will look amazing not only on the Scarlet Witch website but will translate well on signs and printed materials, as well.” She leaned back into the faded velvet sofa with a sigh. “I don’t know how I can be so excited and stressed and confident and terrified all at the same time. I can’t believe it’s finally happening. When I first started the online shop, I never thought I’d have enough success to get out of the corner of this apartment. Now I have my own studio space, a spring show, and hopefully, by this time next year, my store will be open and running. I’m too afraid to hope for more. I can’t believe this is happening.”

“Believe it,” said Pietro.

“You deserve this. You’ve worked damn hard,” agreed Steve. 

VAVAVAVAVAV

**Thursday, January 18, 2017, 1:08 PM**

**Hawkeye Body Studio, Lower East Side, Manhattan:**

Hawkeye’s Body Studio was located on Manhattan’s Lower East Side, where gritty alleys and tenement-style buildings mixed with upscale apartments and chic boutiques. Steve stumbled through the door on that quiet Thursday afternoon, activating the flashing purple lights near each doorway and workstation, and carrying a massive bag of Latin take-out. 

“I’ve brought sustenance!”

Clint appeared from the back with a grin, fiddling with his hearing aids.

It had become a recent though common occurrence for Steve to take meandering lunch breaks during quieter moments at Clint’s shop. 

Clint had commented on it only once. He understood. Things were tense at SHIELD, and Steve somehow felt as if he should take on more of the blame for their current crisis. 

Steve had tried it with Natasha, but she had unceremoniously kicked him out the front doors of Red Room Gallery and said she had more important things to do than babysit grown ass men.

Clint eagerly unloaded the bags on the front desk. “Hey, I like that shirt. Is it new?”

“Oh, um, yeah,” Steve blushed as he lined up the various sauces between them, fighting back a shy, pleased smile and resisting the urge to fuss with the soft, flowy top. 

“Wanda had me try on some of her new designs.”

“I’m just saying, Stevie. You’re lookin’ _real_ good lately.”

Steve’s smile proved irrepressible. For the first time in...he could not even remember, it felt as if the most tender, hidden parts of himself were beginning to match his outer self he showed to the world. And though it was not without its growing pains and quiet moments of sheer terror, he felt as if his entire personhood was tipping toward a kind of balance he had never known before. Some days, the heady, euphoric rush was nearly overwhelming, and Steve found himself barreling down a path toward self-acceptance, loud mouthed and unapologetic with guns blazing.

While Steve daintily sawed off the kernels from his roasted corn so he could eat them with a fork without clogging up his teeth with corn silk, Clint polished off over half of his first taco in a single bite. _No wonder Phil adores him_ , Steve thought to himself.

“So you’re never going to believe who came into my shop for a consultation,” Clint said, mouth impossibly full.

Steve narrowed his eyes in a mixture of half-veiled disgust and reluctant admiration. “Alright, I’ll bite. Who?”

“Let’s just say they’re at the top of the highest paid actors lists. Also, they’re headlining the biggest non-musical on Broadway at the moment. And they recently bought a $5 million dollar brownstone in the neighborhood for the wife and two kiddies.”

“No, shit. Wow. What’s he like?”

Clint shrugged, dragging a piece of fried plantain through some mango barbecue sauce. “Big ego. Big head. A lot shorter than I expected.”

Steve nodded, unsurprised. “Figures.”

“Yeah, so anyway. We got to talking and it turns out, he’s a huge fan of SHIELD, him and his kids, and his favorite artist is some untalented asshole named Steve Rogers.”

Steve honest to god squeaked. _No way._ “Really? He knows my name?”

“Yeah, I know, I was shocked, too. Total fanboy. Dumb bastard. Anyway, he was looking into starting on a half sleeve, wanted something with his kids, but he wants them done up in the style of a Roger’s superhero. So I said I may know the artist personally, and would he be willing to pay for an original commissioned work from Steve Rogers himself?”

Steve’s mouth fell open, hands fluttering uselessly. “Wh...what? You didn’t. Oh my god.”

“I’m thinking black and gray, a bit more realism, so we can showcase both our talents. I mean, with your permission, of course.”

“Are you telling me I could have my work permanently inked on one of the biggest celebrities in the Western hemisphere?”

Clint grinned. “Not too shabby for an asthmatic orphan from Brooklyn, eh, Stevie? I mean, can you imagine the publicity? For both of us?”

He Who Shall Not Be Named may have done his personal best to destroy him but he could not take away Steve’s talent. And he still had Captain America, the one that started it all. 

“This could be the start of something big for you, punk. All you have to do is say yes.” Clint held out a piece of paper with a phone number on it. “I told him you’d give him a call this week.”

Steve jumped off his stool and threw himself at Clint, arms and legs wrapped around him.

“Thank you, Clint.”

“Eh,” he shrugged. “Now stop doing an impression of a baby koala and go get your groove back. I’m tired of you moping around my shop at all hours. It’s bad for business.”

“All lies,” Steve huffed. “If anything, I’m a draw to this place.”

It had been awhile since another Captain America title had come out. He and SHIELD Studios as a whole were preparing for a kind of relaunch to coincide with their nationwide expansion, their first outside of selling to local, independent booksellers first in the neighborhood then all over New York and then further down the Northeastern seaboard.

And it had all come to a screeching halt when Brock had leaked it all, character designs, storyboards, three new graphic novel series, the lot of it to Hydra Press. Years of work gone in an instant when he had gotten the panicked email and a link to Hydra’s site advertising their new series. They were nearly identical. (The break-up text that immediately followed was hardly surprising. It was merely the final nail in the coffin.)

And what could a small, independent press do against a multimillion dollar publishing giant? It had happened before. Of course he had heard the stories. And while the cases floundered in litigation for years, those little independent publishers went bankrupt and closed their doors, and Hydra remained standing. 

Steve could not bear that fate for SHIELD. He had worked too hard. But he never had known when to throw in the towel, when to give up on a fight. It had been the hardest decision of his life to walk away from that fight without any hope for justice. It kept him awake at night, fueled by fury and rage he could not even begin to deal with. He was afraid that it would burn him up from the inside eventually, if he let it.

Once upon a time, long before SHIELD was even a small spark of an idea, Captain America had been Steve’s first outlet, his therapy, a way to channel all of the rage and pain and solitude he experienced as a sick, friendless teen who had just lost his mother and only remaining family to cancer. Maybe it could be that for him again. Maybe it was time for Captain America to take up his shield once more.

**Author's Note:**

> I originally envisioned this story as a Big Eden AU. 
> 
> (Here’s a link to the trailer if you’d like some reference: https://youtu.be/WSxGRfZuGGc.)
> 
> I caught the movie on cable a little while back, having forgotten about its existence.  
> The story is a sweet little gay romance set in a fictional town in Montana known as Big Eden, which, like this story, also features a diminutive gay New York artist, a meddling red-headed curator, a long-haired tall, dark, and adorably shy Eric Schweig, whom I’ve had a crush on since I saw Last of the Mohicans and whom immediately reminded me of what a rom-com Winter Soldier Bucky could be. And personally, I like me some feisty, tiny artist Steve. And thus, this AU was born. 
> 
> Does this resemble literally any of the original plot so far? Absolutely not. That’s not my style. I make everything far more complicated than is required. It is both strength and flaw, as you will see. However, we will get to the original plot points of the movie that inspired this soon. I promise. 
> 
> There will be much plot, much smut, and a very happy ending. No bittersweet, so-called optimistic ending here, folx. It will end in pure, unadulterated fluff with at least a bit of angst along the way but nothing too heavy. 
> 
> Around here, we like everything more colorful and more queer with at least a dash (or ten) of gender fuckery, as the world rightfully should be.
> 
> If any of that entices you to stick with this, welcome. Sit back and stay awhile.
> 
> Also, it must be confessed that I shamelessly pilfered the business model of real life indie book publisher, Akashic Books, who are actually based in Park Slope, Brooklyn in a repurposed factory. I’m a longtime fan. 
> 
> Also also, what do we think so far?


End file.
